


tremulous

by howls



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Disturbing Themes, Episode: s02e03 The Last Laugh, Gen, Hostage Situations, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 02:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howls/pseuds/howls
Summary: Some things change, but for the most part, everything ends the same.Or, Bruce's psyche as Jerome holds him hostage on the stage.





	tremulous

**Author's Note:**

> Not much diverges from canon, sadly. I guess you could say this is practice writing for Bruce and Jerome. 
> 
> There are direct quotes from the episode in this fic.

There were two guns pointed at him, and a knife slicing his throat. A sharp, prickling feeling traveled up his legs from his feet, nipping at his fingertips and wrapping around his torso, up and up then stopping at the line Jerome made across his jugular. A thin, bloody line meant to keep him in place, Bruce knew that he _knew that_, but that didn’t stop the terror building up in his gut from churning when blood started sliding under his shirt.

Bruce couldn’t stop the trembling. No one could get a good shot at Jerome without risking him. He wanted to yell at them, tell them to shoot them already, to get it over with, _ put them to rest if it meant everyone else would be safe. _ But they won’t. Not Alfred, and not Detective Gordon. 

The attendees stared up at the stage, gasping and screaming and huddled in the corner. Like lambs waiting for slaughter, a morbid part of him said. And for a moment, Bruce wanted to yell at them. Snarl at them. To tell them to leave already, the madman didn’t want them so _escape, why are you just standing there? Do you want to see him die? _

Jerome’s breath was like a hot, wet brand against Bruce’s neck. His giggles were going to echo in Bruce’s ears for the rest of his life in perfect recollection. The laughter echoed in his ears as Jerome jerked them around like he’s playing tug-a-war with Detective Gordon, with Bruce as the rope. Jerome’s teeth grazed over his neck and Bruce struggled not to gag. They were almost as sharp as the knife. 

“_What do you say, Brucey boy? Wanna boost our ratings, huh?” _ Jerome snickered and placed the knife firmly against his throat, nudging the previous cut deeply enough that blood rushed out. Bruce fought not to cry out, he refused to give Jerome the satisfaction of making him cry but—_it hurt, it hurt, it hurt. _ “_Smile_.”

He reached out with his shaking hands, crawling at Jerome’s arm until he’s able to force the knife the smidgens amount away. (He doesn’t want to think about how Jerome let him do it. There’s no way he’s strong enough to force the madman away. _ Jerome let him move the knife away—why—why did he—_) 

Jerome tightened his grip—already steel-like and only bending to his wishes—around his waist, making them pressed together from head to toe. There’s an intake of air against his ear, then a pleased hum. 

“Do all rich people smell this good, or is it just _ you_?” Jerome whispered into his ear. 

Bruce didn’t know a person could feel so embarrassed and so violated simultaneously before. He doesn’t get to reply (he’s not sure what he can even say to something like _that_) because Theo Galavan was behind them.

And then—

* * *

Jerome’s eyes were wide-open. It felt like he was staring at him, even in death. _ Especially _in death. The bloodied smile on Jerome’s face nearly split it in two. Slightly hysterically, Bruce wondered how horrifying it would be if Jerome’s smile was that wide—permanently.

Alfred’s hand squeezed his shoulder, an unfailing anchor in the black sea Bruce wandered into. 

He’s ushered away from the stage and bundled away to the ambulance waiting outside with little fanfare. A shock blanket was placed around him and a lady starts treating his wound with precise movements. Alfred was sitting to the side, bouncing with every pothole the vehicle hits. 

“I’m sorry,” the lady said. 

Bruce slowly blinked away the fog that was starting to take over his mind. The lady looked truly apologetic, her eyes focused on the bandage she was just finishing putting on his neck until a proper doctor could look at it. 

“What do you mean?” He croaked out. 

She smiled with detached sadness. “It might be a relatively small cut, but it looks like it’ll scar.”

“Oh,” Bruce was all said. 

Alfred held his shaking hands the rest of the way, and Bruce fought to keep his nausea at bay. 

(A scar. A permanent reminder in his skin on this night. Jerome’s laughter won’t be the only thing he remembered, after all.)

“Sleep, Bruce,” Alfred said. He stroked his thumb soothingly over Bruce’s knuckles. “You’re safe, now.” 

Bruce huddled under his blanket and slowly drifted away. Things will be better in the morning. (They have to.)

**Author's Note:**

> For Whumptober 2019. Day 1: Shaky Hands.


End file.
